The smell of fried electronics and alcohol permeates the Trade Mark Hotel. Hsin-yi’s electronic cigarette is visible in the window, tip-to-tip, as he pedals past the glass doors. The hallway is a labyrinth of knickknacks, from cheap minicomputers to industrial hoses and CCTV monitors. He passes a panel with a cheap-looking circuit board, next to a thing that looks like a resistor. A yellow LED glows on the thing, but it doesn’t seem to be monitoring his movements. He passes a panel with a cheaper looking circuit board, next to a pressure-sensitive dial. The dial has no name on it.

“Hey,” he hears himself say, “what’s that?”

“A hundred jacks.”

He turns and sees a young woman in a tight pink tuxedo coat, who’s about to answer one of his questions, when a blast of blue light catches his attention. “Hey,” he hears herself say, and then nothing at all.

He turns and walks back into the Trade Mark, the blue light of his cigarette still visible in the window.

“Hey, man,” she says, “that’s just fine. I talk to myself sometimes.” She turns and walks back into the room.

“You talk to yourself?”

“Yeah.”